


Her Dark and Luminous Prowess: The Chronicles of the Troll Empress's Personal RPF Writer

by Nemesis Adrasteia (Phantom_Midge)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bad Sex, Characters Writing Fanfiction, Community: homesmut, Crack, Deliberate Badfic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Literary References, Movie References, My Immortal References, Other, POV Douchebag, POV Second Person, Perfectly Cromulent Words, Purple Prose, Rouge Angles of Satin, Story within a Story, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-07 03:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14071641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantom_Midge/pseuds/Nemesis%20Adrasteia
Summary: Dualscar was given a choice: be culled, or write terrible erotica for the Condesce's amusement. He probably should have chosen death.(Reupload from my old account. Written in 2015.)





	Her Dark and Luminous Prowess: The Chronicles of the Troll Empress's Personal RPF Writer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FailureArtist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FailureArtist/gifts).



> Originally posted [here](https://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/40248.html?thread=46456632#cmt46456632).

“ _With a lascivious glimmer in her opalescent orbs, the rambustically statuesque and perfectly coiffed monarch descended upon the trembling mammalian lifeform like a summer storm descending upon the still and silent sea. Like the unfolding of the petals of some rare and exotic flower, her symmetrically obtruscent lips, painted in the most delicate veneer of gold, expanded with delight as she relished the way the creature’s feeble physicality tremored before her dark and luminous prowess._ ”

*snicker*

“ _’Please-” the precarious alien whispered, its mawkish vocalizations presenting a veritable staccato of fear and awe. ‘Please…’ The glorious ruler’s mocking grin widened sharkously, yet daintily, in the manner of an unusually elegant and lovely predator at last cornerering its prey after a elongated and eventeruous hunt. A hunt where the objective was not to maim and kill, though she in all her mightiness was more than capable of this wonton viciousness of the sort that rpoclaims true might, but rather to satisfy and althogther different manner of passion. In other words, a hunt of lust._ ”

“Teeheehee!”

“ _’You should feel honoured,’ she purred sumerically, in a soft and sultry voice as tremulous, calming, and terrible as the sea. ‘I select only the finest specimens to be assimilaited into my interstellar man-beast harem.’_ ”

“Ahahahaha!”

“Okay, this next part’s a fucking bore, I’mma skip ahead a few chapters…”

“Heeheeheeeeee…”

“Alright, here’s some more of the good shit!”

“Hee.”

“ _…a menagerie of genitals standing to attention, powerless, enthralled by her beauty…_ ”

“Heehehee!”

“ _…they beheld the magnanimouse glory of her rippling fuchsia tentabulge as it writhed and thrashed, turbulent as the stormy sea…_ ”

“EhehehehHEEHEEHEEheehee!”

“ _…having selected her plaything of choice, she beckoned the trembling man-slave to her vicinity with a flickering motion of her eloquent bejweled hand. The grappled musclebeast exited the throng of his similarily aroused fellows and stumbled nervousfully toward the splendidly arrayed sea-queen in an obediant trajectory, trembling in anticipation of what he knew was to come…_ ”

“Hahaha!”

“ _…sharply polished fingernails slowly exfoliated his perpendicular scrotum until the quiverous sausage of masculinity was…_ ”

**“BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”**

“ _Her heaving bosoms heaved heavingly…_ ”

“Oh cod, _stop_.”

“ _…like the heaving of the waves upon the sea._ ”

“Seriously clown, stop it. I’m fuckin’ _dying_ here.”

“Awww, c’mon! I’m about to be getting to the best motherfucking part!”

“Just gimme a minnowte, ‘kay? I need a breather.”

It’s not much of a breather, though. True to her word, she pauses to catch her breath – for a few seconds at most. Then she starts giggling again. Never one to do things in half measures, even her gigglefits are impressive. Her entire body convulses, and soon she has literally fallen off her throne from laughing too hard. Somehow, she still manages to look appropriately regal while lying on the floor and giggling hysterically, tears of laughter streaming down her face. Perched on a nearby pile of fish bones is her psychotic asshole of a moirail, watching her with a gigantic shit-eating grin on his psychotic asshole face and your formerly-private ~~diary~~ captain’s log clutched in his unnecessarily large hands. You have never felt so mortified in your entire life.

At first you were relieved when the Grand Highblood informed you of his decision to “SPARE YOUR PATHETIC FUCKING WASTE OF A LIFE, YOU PRETENTIOUS FUCKWAD." For a brief, wonderful time, the relief was replaced by elation after he went on to say that due to an unforeseen event, the empress herself wanted to meet you in person. During that brief, wonderful time, you entertained the possibility that maybe, just _maybe_ your wildest dreams were about to come true. You never in a million sweeps would have guessed that the “unforeseen event” was the discovery of your private logs by the Highblood’s goons, who had rudely taken it upon themselves to ransack your hive during your absence. And you never in a billion-trillion-zillyhooillian sweeps would have guessed that Her Imperious Condescension’s reason for wanting to meet you was… whatever the shell this is supposed to be. In retrospect, you probably should have known it was all too good to be true.

So now you’re here, tied to a chair in the Condesce’s throne room, watching helplessly as she and her asshole moirail savagely mock your writing, which you have spent countless hours pouring your heart and soul into. A makeshift gag made of the Grand Highblood’s dirty socks has been shoved into your mouth, preventing you from verbally defending the artistic merits of your work (and adding insult to injury with its foul stench).

You believe the appropriate response to this situation is “Fuck my life.”

***

When the Condesce outlines her terms to you, you can’t stop yourself from blurting out “Are you fucking serious?” You regret it immediately afterward.

She grabs a handful of your hair and yanks your head upwards, forcing you to look her in the eye.

“Look buoy, I’m givin’ you a _choice_ here, which is more than I do for most losers. The choice is: You do what I want, or I cull your ass. What I _want_ is for you to keep writing your carppy fanfiction so me and clown-dude can shit ourshellves laughing at it.”

You are about to reply that you would sooner be culled by her (perfectly manicured) hand than allow yourself to be subjected to further humiliation. At least then you would be able to die with your dignity partially intact.

“Death at the hands of a noble woman such as yourself would be in every way preferable to a life of degradation.” That’s what you _intend_ to say, and you’re proud of yourself for coming up with such badass and intelligent sounding last words on such short notice. This’ll be one for the history books, you just know it. But then, as though he anticipated your hastily conceived plan, the Grand Highblood opens his big, stupid mouth.

“Think about it, kid. You either die and go down in history as a pretentious fuckwad who couldn’t tell a simple fucking joke right, or you have the honour of spending the rest of your life making a motherfucking _empress_ laugh. This ain’t rocket science. I know what I’d choose.”

You have to admit, the fucker has a point.

***

A few sweeps ago, if someone had told you that sometime in the not-too-distant future the Condesce would be behind you, her body pressed right up against yours, you would have found the prospect very appealing. Indeed, she _is_ currently right behind you. Her hands are resting on back of the wooden chair you’re sitting in, and every once in a while you feel a tendril of her hair brush against your back through the embarassingly tight shirt she has commanded you to wear when in her presence. However, there is nothing particularly appealing about the way she’s breathing down your neck while you compose an Epic Saga detailing the torrid caliginous affair between Troll David Bowie and Troll Mick Jagger (which was never conclusively proven by historians, by the way. Troll David Bowie has been notoriously tight-lipped regarding the matter). She insisted you do it in verse, to your dismay; poetry has never been your strong point. Thankfully, you managed to convince her that iambic pentameter was not the way to go. You _hate_ iambic pentameter. (Almost as much as you have come to hate Troll Arnold Schwarzenegger. For “research” purposes, you were ordered to watch all the Condesce’s favourite films, roughly 53% of which are execrable action movies. If you never see Troll Arnold Schwarzenegger’s face again, it will be too soon.)

About halfway through Chapter 3 of your Epic Saga (titled _Dance Magic Dance Little Sister_ ) she abruptly decides it’s not “funny” enough.

“Hey, writerbitch.” That’s the demeaning nickname she has so graciously bestowed on you. She never calls you Dualscar or even your real name, Cronus. It’s always “writerbitch” or “kiddo” or “Enoby” or, on days when she’s feeling less charitable, “fuckwad." Most of the appellations she gives you are fairly self-explanatory, except for Enoby. You have no idea what the significance of that is, and you haven’t been able to work up the guts to ask her. You made the mistake of asking the Grand Highblood once. Instead of giving you an answer, he laughed uproariously and made a cryptic remark about leather fishnets, which you’re pretty sure are not things that exist in reality. Then he punched you. (Why? Because he’s a psychotic asshole, that’s why.)

But you digress.

“Hey, writerbitch.” She taps you on the shoulder.

“Yes, Your Condescension?” you say, not looking up from the shitty vintage typewriter she gave you.

“This ain’t cracking me up. Write somefin else.”

“What shall I write instead, Your Condescension?”

“I dunno. Lemme think it over.”

After a long, sleepless day spent pacing her chambers in deep contemplation, she realizes what the problem is. Celebrity RPF is amusing to an extent, but it just doesn’t “do it” for her. The novelty wears off too soon. For maximum hilarity, the topic of the story needs to be closer to home, so to speak.

 ***

Given a choice in the matter, you probably would not have written the thing you just wrote. You were not given a choice in the matter.  
  
The Head Gardener in charge of maintaining the Condesce’s Imperial Gardens is a young tealblood named Melvin Butoks. Prior to her current employment, Melvin was kicked out of the Threshecutioner Corps for reasons that were never revealed to the public. She was a high-ranked officer, especially for one of her blood caste, so it was only natural that her dismissal would inspire a fuckton of rumours and slander. Among the many rumours circulating were scandalous whisperings of inappropriate conduct with a tree.  
  
Yes, that’s right. A tree.  
  
Hence why the next time the Condesce summons you, the first words out of Her Eminent Bitchiness’s mouth are: “I want a story about Gardener Butoks and my Czarnian spoffet-trees.”  
  
“What,” you say, unsure if you’ve heard correctly. She can’t be serious.  
  
“I’m thinkin’ black or ashen. Quadrant-flipping’s cool as long as it ain’t pale,” she continues. “I’m bored of palefic. I feel like somefin with a little… _bite_.”  
  
Okay, apparently she is serious. On the one hand, you’re glad she’s sick of reading palefic, because you were starting to get sick of writing it (although you didn’t dare to voice the sentiment). On the other hand, how the fuck are you supposed to write about someone romancing a _tree?_  
  
“How am I supposed to write about someone romancing a _tree?_ ” you ask incredulously.  
  
The Condesce smiles at you. It’s not a nice sort of smile. “I’m shore you’ll figure out a way,” she says, making a point of fingering the pointiest part of her 2x3dent. You get the message, and promise her you’ll have it done by tomorrow morning. Somehow.

***

 _Melvin allowed a silky, nebulous trill to escape her sound production organ as she pressed the languidity of her lithe, supentine body against the the tree’s it’s salty vermillion bark deliciously rough and scrathy against her unclothed skin. She inserted her nails into the depths of the outermost layer of the tree’s trunk and sluggishly, yet viscously dragged them downward to its posterior, tearing down longitudinal strips of tree._  
  
_“You like that, don’t you, rapacious scoundrel? being subjugated by ME. You are immobile and helpless to resist!” she groled into the area of where she her kismesis’s ear might be if it had an ear. It didn’t have an ear however, because it was a tree. Trees do not have ears. the glory that is the flora of mother Alternia’s earthy loins has no need for such pithy trivialities as ears. The tree knew this and brstled in a manner that suggested its mouth would ne areanged in the form of a judicious smirk if it had a mouth. It did not have a mouth, because it was a tree. It’s roots strained arbouriously to disrupt the integrity of the ground beneath where Melvin stood erect in her mud-and-fertilizer covered gardening boots, hoping to throw its hated paramour of balance as it accelerated the process of digging is protrudanced thorns into the flesh of the arrogant trollwoman that arrogantly claimed herself worthy of its rivalry._  
  
_Melvn recognized this challenge to her worthyness for what it was, and responded by rapidly wisting her pelvis in the adjacent direction, vigorously thrusting her groin area against the same section from which she had moments ago removed portions of tree-epidermis through the means of her own fingers. An allegorical rubbing salt in the wound to display dominance over the ancient and hallowed plantlife. Her bulge unsheathed and slithered out of her satin underpantgarments, engulfed itself around the perimeter of a thin, ethereal branch like a snake constricting a captured meowbeast._  
  
“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” The Condesce grabs a hold of your arm to steady herself as she shakes with hysterical laughter. “You’re a fuckin’ treasure, Enoby. I’m NEVER lettin’ you go!”  
  
You grimace and do your best to pretend you aren’t screaming internally. “Thank you, Your Condescension.”  
  
Psychotic asshole clown-dude gives you his trademark shit-eating grin. You really, really, _really_ want to punch him right in his smug face, but you suspect that would only result in you breaking your fist. Then he would laugh at you. You can’t have that.

***

Less than a week later, Melvin marches up to you with a murderous look in her eyes. Before you have a chance to ask her who pissed in her cereal tonight, she backhands you hard enough to extract what can only be described as a squeak from your shoutbox. Once upon a time you would have culled her on the spot for this offence, but now you wouldn’t dream of it. The Condesce once mentioned in passing that Melvin is the most competent Head Gardener she’s ever had, and that thanks to the former Threshecutioner’s careful attention her Andorian petunias have never looked better. If there’s one thing you’ve learned since this strange chapter of your life began, it’s that nobody fucks with the Condesce’s precious garden. You’ve seen firsthand what happens to people who _do_ , and it’s not pretty. Keeping this in mind, you aren’t going to risk doing anything that would compromise the Andorian petunias, and if that means Melvin gets to pimp-slap you without lethal retaliation, then so be it.

It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to compose yourself, but in the end your self-preservation instinct wins out over your inborn highblood-rage. Instead of giving in to the urge to tear Melvin limb from limb, you calmly face her and say in the most unaffected tone you can muster, “The fuck is your problem, Butoks?”

“I think you know exactly what the problem is, _Douchescar_.”

Wow, such a clever retort. You’ve never heard _that_ one before. Her lightning-fast insult reflexes are making you weep on the inside. How a chick this sharp could’ve got herself booted from the most prestigious military division on the planet is beyond you.

Not.

“Isn’t it enough that my reputation has been completely ruined by fish-faced jerks like you? Do you _have_ to write creepy erotica about me molesting trees?”

You shrug. “If you don’t like it, take it to the empress. She comes up with this shit, I just write it down.”

She can’t argue with that. She shoots a death glare at you and then skulks away, grumbling to herself. Clearly, Melvin Butoks has some issues she needs to work through. Not that that’s your problem.

***

The Grand Highblood, as it turns out, has a rather large collection of alien films. _Pornographic_ alien films. This does not surprise you at all. You had a feeling he was into weird shit.

Over the course of five terrible, horrible, no good, very bad nights you are forced to sit through _Chitauri Gone Wild_ , _Amazon Women on Arrakis_ , _Brokeback Barsoom_ , _Famous Twinks of Gallifrey_ , _Flash Gordon and the Ass-Pirates of the Q Continuum_ , and _Debbie Does Discworld_ , among other fascinating and horrifying recordings of freaky aliens engaging in freaky sexual escapades. The sandworm-mounting scene in _Amazon Women on Arrakis_ is especially disturbing. It is also the inspiration for the next awful thing Her Imperial Batshittery has decided you should write.

***

 _“…adrift as he was in a sea of pulsifying flobberous wormwangs, Jakazz held his breath and did his utmost not to drown. The glosphemous, impending genital-forest wobbled to and fro as more and more penal organs exploded out of from the surface of the worm’s frothing sandy skin, the forest extending its reach for miles down the sinuous length of the worm’s enormous body. the multitudinous worm-phalluses probed about the perimeter of the worm where the worm’s spinal region would have been allocated were the beast in possession of the skeletal sctructure known as a spine (it was not, because worms are invertebrates), searching for fortuitously present beings to inseminate with the worm’s juice of procreation. Jakazz stealthily slonked furtherly down the worm’s back, to a lower patch of worm-flesh towards the anterior of its body, a spot that had yet to sprout its own wavering garden of worm-boners. He knew his only chance at escaping his gristly fate as an incubator for the creature’s slimy spawn was to ascend to the worm’s head; the only part of it that was incapable of summoning genital protrusions from beneath its skin. However, the path to the head was blocked by a writhing, wriggling sea of penii. It would be a long and treacherous journey. Jakazz took a deep breath, double-checked that all exposed orifices were plugged up with Kleenex, and unsheathed his sword (which was literally a sword, not a euphemism) before plunging forthward into the dark and deadly expanse of the boner jungle.”_  
  
“Heeheeheehee, _worm-boners_ , heeheehee!”  
  
The precise moment when you ran out of fucks to give is easily pinpointed; it was the same moment you decided to use the word “worm-boners” to describe a giant worm’s genitalia. That was the moment when any shred of artistic integrity you may have had was utterly destroyed; torn to bits by metaphorical rabid barkbeasts, and then shredded to even smaller bits by the swiftly rotating blades of an equally metaphorical ceiling fan made of fossilized monster turds. The Condesce doesn’t seem to notice any difference, though. She’s sitting on her psychotic asshole moirail’s lap, holding all ten-and-a-half pages of your latest “masterpiece” and excitedly swinging her legs back and forth like a little kid while Fuckhead McClownjerk braids her hair. It’s sickeningly adorable, and you wish there was a barf-bag somewhere in the room.  
  
You actually felt dirty after finishing the sandworm story. You wonder what the fuck past-you was thinking, having flushed feelings for someone who’d want to read about this sort of disgusting, depraved awfulness. (Okay, so you had no way of knowing about this side of her back when you still had that flushcrush, but you feel like you should have picked up on some weirdo vibes or _something_.)

***

The next time you see Senator Jakazz, he glares at you and draws a finger across his throat, the universal sign for “I am going to fucking kill you.”  
  
“What a coward,” you think. Melvin Butoks may be a twit, but she had the guts (and the nerve) to confront you directly, and with a pimp-slap no less. You’re willing to bet _this_ guy wouldn’t last five seconds in a fight against you. Incidentally, he also has terrible taste in fashion. Flared trousers and mullet haircuts stopped being cool and started being a crime against trollkind a hundred sweeps before his scrawny ass crawled out of the brooding caverns. Really, what is _wrong_ with some people.

***

The Imperial Hit-List is very, very long, and its contents change almost daily according to the Condesce’s whims. Lady Imgona Gettya and Subjuggulator Lerkur Krreep were on the Hit-List for a record-breaking total of five measly minutes before the Condesce changed her mind and pulled them off. The pair of them were too useful to be culled right away, but they still needed to be punished for the crime they had committed against their empress (namely, TP’ing the Condescensionmobile when they thought no one was looking).  
  
And who better to give out the punishment than the empress’s personal fanfiction writer, soon to be a best-selling novelist if all went according to plan?

***

 _“No, Lerkur,” Imgona whispered chimerically, taking her object of affection’s gothic hands in her own slenderly serendipitous ones. “I truly am not at all weirded out by your jellyfish fetish, any more than you are weirded out by my fetish for short, cross-eyed women. Everyone has a type! Admittedly yours is a little odd, but I still care about you! It could even be said that I… pity you.”_  
  
_“Oh, Imgona!” said Lerkur._  
  
_“Lerkur!” said Imgona._  
  
_“Imgona!” said Lerkur._  
  
_“Lerkur!” said Imgona._  
  
_Her grenulous, maleficant orbs glistening with pure, unadultered pity, Lerkur encased her languid arm-appendages around the circumference of her soon-to-be-matesprit’s 27 inch waist and fissured the trench betwix their facial areas with a vociferous meeting of mouth-parts that the bards would sing of for sweeps to come. Their tongues enshrined each other precautiously, like vine-plants wrapping ‘round an old fence surrounding an ancient crumbling manor-hive, except the fence was actually their mouths and the “building” was their heads. When at last they broke apart from their tongue-confrontation, gasping, drool of passion dripping from their mouths, Imgona realized that she had never felt this way for another person in decades._  
  
_“I have never felt this way for another person in decades,” she said, wiping the drool off her chin._  
  
_“And I…” Lerkur shivered sophomorically, abruptly experiencing the anunciation of lust blooming within her groinal region. “I have never felt this way for anyone ever, who wasn’t a jellyfish. I thought for so long I would never find love amongst my own species, but now that I have you, I need not resort to hours spent longingly, wistfully gazing at the specimens in aquariums, forever separated by thick glass walls, gallons of water, and those pesky anti-bestiality laws! Imgona, you are far more beauteous than any jellyfish ever could hope to be!”_  
  
_“Oh, Lerkur! Of all the short, cross-eyed women I have been flushed for, you are the shortest and most cross-eyed! It is as though fate has brought us together!”_  
  
_“Oh, Imgona!”_  
  
_They kissed once more._  
  
_“Hey…” Lerkur said afterwards, a strangulated and sooty tone ingressing her vocal chords whilst her eyelashes flattered in a girlish and come-hither manner. “I think we are perhaps wearing too many clothes, don’t you?”_  
  
_“Indeed,” said Imgona, pulling off her blouse, corset, jumper, and bloomers with a single consecutive sleight of hand._  
  
_“Bow-chika-wow-wow,” Lerkur said sensually, extracting herself of her own dress, skirt, underskirt, and under-underskirt, and with an extravagant flemish, dramatically flinging the garments to the floor, where they lay like a discarded candy wrapper while the two lovers absconded to Imgona’s concupiscent platform._  
  
_They pailed all night and all day long, and then they pailed some more, and then they lived happily ever after and pailed practically every night, except on nights when Lerkur was not availiable on account of having do important subjuggulator business-things._  
  
_The End._  
  
You slump in your chair, glad beyond words that it’s finally over. This is the longest shitty RPF story the Condesce has forced you to write so far, at a whopping 413 pages.  
  
Thankfully, Her Supreme Evilness has for the most part stopped doing the thing where she breathes-down-your-neck-while-you-write. You’ve found that you tend to make more typos when she does that. But since there must be balance in the universe, one source of irritation has faded away only to be replaced by another: lately the Grand Highasshole has taken to ambushing you and saying… things. Really creepy things. Most notably, he keeps threatening to shove a garden gnome up your nook. You don’t have the heart to tell the guy that Mindfang already got there way ahead of him. (Okay, that’s not true; you _do_ have the heart to tell him, but you’re still not going to. The details of your sex life are none of his business.) It’s preferable to the Condesce breathing-down-your-neck-while-you-write, though. The Grand Highjerk’s sporadic sexual harassment, while annoying and creepy, does not cause the quality of your work to suffer.  
  
On the bright side, the Condesce has been extra-pleased with your shitty RPF as of late, and she said she’s going to introduce you to Troll David Bowie as a reward. In the immortal words of Troll Charlie Sheen, _winning_.

***

About the whole introducing-you-to-David-Bowie thing? There’s a catch. Of course there is. You were a fool to think there wouldn’t be.  
  
The catch?  
  
You have to write about the Grand Highdouche seducing the Demoness.  
  
This is terrible, horrible, no good, and very bad on at least four levels:  
  
Level the First: You have to write smut about the fucking Grand Highblood, which is awful and of itself.  
  
Level the Second: Even though you’re not superstitious, the thought of writing anything about the Demoness (let alone smut about the Demoness) gives you the willies. Everyone has it pounded into their skull from a young age that the Demoness is Bad News (capital letters mandatory). It doesn’t matter that most people think she doesn’t exist and is just an old lusii tale made up to scare young trolls into behaving themselves (you actually have memories of your lusus telling you the Demoness would come to take you away if you didn’t eat all your grubloaf like a good wiggler); there’s still something scary about the mere idea of her. In fact, she’s _so_ scary, some people won’t even say the words “Demoness” or “Handmaid” out loud; instead they euphemistically refer to her as the Scottish Girl. You have no idea what “Scottish” is, nor does anyone else you’ve ever met. The meaning of the word has been lost to history.  
  
Level the Third: The fact that the Grand Highbutt fantasizes about pailing Death’s Handmaid means he’s even more of a psychotic asshole than you thought he was (emphasis on the **psychotic** part).  
  
Level the Fourth: Writing smut about him means you will have to picture him naked. Ew. _Ewwwwwwww._ You’re about as squeamish as you are superstitious (read: not at all, which is good since people in both your former and current lines of work really can’t afford to be squeamish), but still. **EW.**  
  
But you must find a way to put aside all those feelings of revulsion and soldier on, or else no Troll David Bowie for you.

***

 _…even her unshaved pubic hair shimmered as though lightly sprinkled with the glitterdust of the ages, and each of the individual hairs shone a different hue on the prismatic spectrum. Simply put, her crotch was a shining rainbow of wonders._  
  
_“Holy fucking fuck,” he breathed in awe. His bulge prominently displayed his opinion of the strange and wondrous terrain that lay between her legs, with the way his engorged girth lurched and vacillated vicariously like a chandelier being swung from by an inebriated teenager. Try as he might, he could not take his eyes off her scintillating figure. The Demoness took note of this, and smirked, satisfied with the sway she held over this powerful and authoritarian exemplar of manlyness._  
  
_She slinked herself closer to him and aligned her frame with his, her thin arms winding around his thick neck like protracted ropes of sentient licorice enveloping a fire hydrant. Her hips gyrated against him; garrously colliding his trouser-snake with her own and rubbing the dampened petals of her nook on his manly knee._  
  
_“Tell me,” she breathed into his motley mane of hair. “Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?”_  
  
_“What the fuck is a devil?” the Grand Highblood asked, blinkingly dumbly like a big stupid jerk (which he was not, because Her Imperious Condescension would never ever pale-date a big stupid jerk, but that was what he resembled in that particular moment)._  
  
_“It’s what I am, stupid!” The Demoness pulled away from him, obliviously offended by his ignorance._  
  
_“I’m not stupid! Your FACE is stupid!” he whined as he tried to haul her back into his grasp._  
  
_“SHUT UP AND DO ME!” she roared, grabbing his bulge._  
  
_“OKAY!” he ejaculated._  
  
_He strengthily hoisted her up as though she was made of foam packaging and slammed her down onto his bulge._  
  
_“$#^ &^**^%@#!@#!$@^&$*&(%)*^*&$&%#@!%%#!” she screamed in ecstasy_

***

You are now seriously regretting writing that, even more so than you regretted writing any of the other awful, putrid crapfests that have spewed out of your pen over the past half-a-sweep or so. (Has it really been that long? Fuck.) Troll David Bowie is so not worth it.  
  
Nothing is worth walking into the Imperial Fanfiction-Writing Room to find the Demoness leaning on the Imperial Fanfiction-Writing Desk and reading the awful smut you wrote about her and that fucking clown.  
  
You are this close to shitting your very stylish pants in terror.  
  
You may be a badass motherfucker who deigns to show weakness before no one, but this is _the motherfucking Demoness_ ; the nightmarish lady-shaped harbinger of doom that every single troll, from the lowest lowblood to the Condesce herself, has grown up hearing horror stories about. The chick who, if the old tales are to be believed, has singlehandedly carried out more massacres than all the subjuggulators put together. Being afraid of her isn’t cowardice; it’s common sense.  
  
“Did you write this?” she asks quietly, looking at you like you’re an unusual insect she found crawling on the inside of her cereal box. You nod, too terrified to speak.  
  
She glances back at the papers in her hand, then puts them down on your desk and takes a step toward you. You squeeze your eyes shut and wait for the end.  
  
There are no words in any language that can accurately express how shocked you are when instead of turning you into a violet smear on the wall, she stands on tiptoes (for a fearsome boogeyman she’s oddly short) and kisses you on the cheek, leaving a neon green lipstick imprint that you won’t notice until the Grand Highblood makes a rude comment about it hours later. When she pulls away, your mouth is hanging open like… well, like a dead fish.  
  
“Thank you,” she says, while you gape at her. “That was the first time I’ve laughed in centuries.”  
  
Then there’s some weird space-time distortion making the air around her turn green and black and pixelated, and just like that she’s gone, leaving you standing there like a dope, blinking furiously and trying to convince yourself that this actually happened.  
  
A few hours later, you’re strolling through the Imperial Gardens, wearing a big doofy grin. The only other people there are a couple of gardeners tending to the newest additions, a bunch of trees recently imported from Kashyyyk. They (the gardeners, not the trees) look up from their work and stare at you like you’ve gone insane. Your wrist is fractured and half the bones in your fingers are shattered and you couldn’t care less, because it was 100% worth it.  
  
The Condesce’s pimptacular blingy jewelry = $35000000000  
The shitty vintage typewriter the Condesce gave you = $18  
The look on the Grand Highblood’s face after you socked him in the jaw for making a rude comment about the lipstick on your cheek = absolutely fucking priceless.  
  
_la fin._


End file.
